


firestarters

by virginianwolfsnake



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Arson, Backstory, F/M, I do not know why I have written this, basically just good luck if you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginianwolfsnake/pseuds/virginianwolfsnake
Summary: "It is freeing to be given permission to feel the way he always has."A creepy pre-canon, pre-opera backstory for two of our villains.
Relationships: Count Olaf/Esmé Squalor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	firestarters

Even from this distance, the smoke stings his eyes. His education has taught him that he should rush toward the blaze and do his very best, even in the absence of any water, appropriate clothing or equipment, to rescue any survivors. While his training had focused at first on literal fires, he had only been a child when they increasingly became figurative, and yet still they are never prepared for those. Or is it the other way around? Lemony would _delight_ in patronisingly explaining the difference again.

Yellow and red tendrils curl around the structure, reaching out from broken windows as if they are the arms of a merciless, growling beast. It belches out flakes of ash, hanging in the air like sinister snowflakes, and spits embers into the sky, where they briefly twinkle among the stars. In a sudden fit of rage, the beast breaks into the upper floor, smashing the windows. Even in only the light of the moon, Olaf can see the pale brickwork blackening by the moment, as if every inch of it is being infected by the darkness within.

He peers between the bars of the imposing metal gate to get a closer look. Against the backdrop of the dark sky, it makes a beautiful sight, but he shouldn’t think so. Beatrice would shed a tear over the books inside, pages curling in on themselves in response to the lick of the flame and turning to dust - and that’s to say nothing of the potential people inside. But, even if he only admits it privately, there is a threatening beauty in the all-consuming power of the beast, the monstrous greed as it consumes everything it touches, the roar as it tears down anything that dares to stand in its way.

An entirely different roar sounds from behind him. It takes him a moment to draw his eyes away from the scene, and when he does he springs into what he hopes is a convincing action stance, as if he had been _just about_ to do something. But then he sees that this is not a taxi. The engine quietens to a purr on the approach, tires screeching against the gravel as the car swerves to a stop next to his own.

“They said I was the closest,” Esmé says, once she has arrived beside him at the gate, apparently eschewing an ordinary greeting. “I didn’t realise there was already somebody investigating.”

She is a sight to behold, as always. He has become somewhat used to her bold sartorial choices from their fortnightly acting classes, but that doesn’t mean he cannot still be surprised sometimes (and somewhat mesmerised at other times, he admits, remembering a particularly daring slit in the side of a satin skirt). At first, he thinks tonight she might somehow be _wearing_ molten gold, but on closer inspection he notices that her blazer and the dress underneath are made from an incredibly intricate pattern of what must be hundreds of thousands of tiny sequins, producing a liquid-like effect in the glow.

“Is the gate locked?” she asks. There is something in the construction of her face that often makes it impossible to know what she is thinking, and he finds that as infuriating as ever in this moment. What she means, he suspects, is not really _is the gate locked_, but rather, depending on the answer; _why haven’t you gone inside, _or_ why haven’t you broken the lock, _but those are questions he is not sure he will be able to answer, so he pointedly decides to answer only the one he can.

“No,” he admits eventually, stooping to pick up and show her the broken padlock. “I was about to go in,” he assures her in his best truthful voice, so of course she believes him and nods. Once he is convinced of that, he moves back slightly from the bars afterwards, allowing her the space to push the gate open.

After a long moment, mysterious eyes looking up at him, she slides into the space he has vacated and peers through.

A strange feeling coils in his stomach. “What are you doing?”

She simply hums, hands curling around the bars. That she wants to stare too gives him the permission to do so again, and his eyes creep back to see that the beast is making quick work of the structure now, flames licking and dancing on the roof and big billowing clouds of acrid smoke in the sky.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she comments after a few moments of silence. He is about to brush her comment off - he can hear an appropriate line in his head, something about villainy and the preciousness of life and the world going up in smoke if they are not careful - but then when he looks at her the words die on his tongue.

The dancing, flickering glow of the blaze has sharpened the edges of her cheekbones and jaw. Her eyes are gleaming in the warm light and she looks ahead at the monstrous destruction with what he feels he can only describe as admiration, as if she can see a work of art instead of a crime scene. He feels like he is seeing himself reflected back on delicate ivory features, and that strange twisting feeling slithers inside him again.

“Are you going to go inside?” he asks, and she fixes him with a look.

“In _these_ shoes?” she laughs, eyes flicking back to the flames. “No, I don’t think so.”

His brow furrows. “Then why did you respond to the call?”

She turns towards him this time, leaning back against the bars. There is a long, heavy moment of silence between them, and as always he cannot read her expression no matter how intently he stares, and his stomach flips and twists and clenches while he waits.

“Why did you?” she whispers.

There is an almighty, almost deafening _bang_ from behind the gate. He jumps, heart hammering in his chest, and feels her do the same - but neither of them scramble backwards towards their cars. Esmé twists back around in front of him as he inches closer, chest brushing against her sequinned back. The heat of the blaze is now free from the confines of the front wall and warming his face even from such a distance, the bright flames bulging out into the black night.

“What was that?” he asks, over the back of her head, as though the few centimetres between their stances will enable her to know the answer. He knows the fire will have found an accelerant in the house, obviously, but he wonders - purely academically, of course - if it is electricity or gas that has caused such violent and sudden destruction.

He feels powerful suddenly, as if the fire has spread to him too. He wonders distantly if she is scared, because he thinks he can feel her tremble slightly against him, but he is without either the care or the will to ask, transfixed by the scene ahead of him. His heart is still thumping heavily in his ears when she turns again, eyes feverish and wild, and fixes him with a dazzling smile.

“It was _exciting_,” she breathes. As he stares down at her, feeling every bit as alive as she looks, she closes the short distance between them and presses her lips to his.

If he had felt powerful before, he feels doubly so now. The adrenaline is still rushing in his bloodstream and the flames crackle and growl behind them, the smell of the smoke stronger in the air, sharpening his senses. Her hands are still shaking when she clasps one of them on his shoulder to pull him closer, breath in short gaps, and he groans when she curls her sharp nails into the back of his neck.

It distantly occurs to him that perhaps this is not an entirely normal reaction to being rather perilously close to an enormous house fire, but no part of him can begin to care. She is electrified, exhilarated and frantic, almost, in the way _he_ is. It is freeing, _delicious_ almost, to be given permission to feel the way he always has.

Her hand slides over the front of his shirt, nimble fingers making short work of the top buttons and pulling his collar loose from his neck so that she can access the skin there, sharp teeth scraping against his throat. He pulls insistently at the lapels of her blazer in a way he never thought she would allow, peeling the fabric away and allowing it to slither down into the dust behind her back. He presses even harder against her, closing any space between them, one hand tangling in her hair to manoeuvre her mouth back to his and kissing her so hard that her head slams back into the bars.

Her leg quirks upwards against his own, and her hands are everywhere suddenly - on his hips pulling closer, in his hair, over his chest. He secures her leg around his hip with one hand as he pushes the shimmering fabric of her dress further up her thighs and slides his other in between them, pushing aside cool silk to find her hot and wet underneath.

She moans with his tongue in her mouth, sordid and _amazing_, and he is too distracted to notice the moment she must have brushed her fingers over his shirt pocket and reached inside. He only knows about it when she breaks their kiss and holds up the book of matches.

He knows himself to be quick-witted, silver-tongued, but in his shock he does nothing but exhale, searching for the excuses he needs while his mind is overtaken by a chilling panic.

He is expecting her to scramble away from him, probably sacrificing various sequins in the process, or to see that unreadable look in her eyes again. But, strangely, when he meets them they are bright and warm and _knowing_, her lips quirk into a smile, and this time he is _certain_ he can understand her expression. Her lipstick has smudged across her cheek, and the effect of the smear of red against her porcelain skin is violent and beautiful. She slips the matchbook back inside his pocket, eyes locked on his own, and then captures his lips again.

“Our secret,” she whispers into his mouth, and now he cannot help but smile too, the adrenaline and the desire and the danger and the acceptance combining to create a stronger effect than any drug he can imagine. Her fingers slide down between them, adroitly unbuckling his belt, and there is a muffled crash as something in the burning structure collapses while something between them is built in its place.


End file.
